


At Some Point We'd All Be Happy, If We Quit Making Stupid Mistakes

by rattrap (SquashlingChaotic)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar and Dorian are Bros Forever, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquashlingChaotic/pseuds/rattrap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herah Adaar and the Iron Bull.  It's not the glamorous love story Josephine would picture, but it should be a match made in heaven for a couple of mercenaries.  Unfortunately, there's a lot more standing between them than appears at first glance.  A story about good communication, cultural differences, friendship, and (eventually) polyamory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With a title like this, what could possibly go wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter's always the hardest, no? Except for the summary.

Having returned from the (surprisingly wet) Fade, Herah can't wait to get rid of the damp. She passes her armor and daggers off for cleaning, taking a moment to silently thank the Maker for servants, then retreats to her quarters to peel off her wet clothing and sprawl out naked in front of the fire. It's gloriously warm, and it smells of woodsmoke and not stagnant puddles. Just as she's settled in, though, she hears a knock at her door.

"If Corypheus is attacking, tell him it can wait until I feel dry." She calls at the door.

There's a chuckle from the other side, and the Bull speaks. "We need to talk, Boss."

"With or without clothes?" she replies.

"With."

"Not happening." She stretches and sits up. "They're still wet, and I'm comfortable."

"Put on a blanket or something." Bull replies. "We won't be doing much talking if you're naked."

"Fine." Herah gets up, tugs a blanket off her bed, and covers herself with it as she settles back next to the fire. "Come in."

Bull raises the eyebrow over his good eye at Herah's positioning, but pulls her desk chair around so he can sit down and face her. "You told Dorian we fucked."

"Of course I did." Herah says. "He's my friend, we had a bet on, and I meant to collect. Wait, don't tell me--you want a cut."

"I wouldn't say no." Bull replies. "I don't need to tell you how hard it is to keep mercenaries fed, boss. But whether you want that to happen again or not, we need to talk about this. For starters, I assume you don't want all of Thedas knowing what happened between us.

"Oh, I don't mind. But I imagine Josephine and Leliana would. It wouldn't do for people to imagine their Herald as anything less than pure. I suppose you can tell the folks who knew your old Ben-Hassrath affiliation if you want, and, well, I've told Dorian and that's it for people I need to have know. But to answer the unasked, Andraste's Holy Tits, it was good, and I want that to happen again."

"I can make that happen." Bull says. "But first, ground rules. I will never hurt you without your permission. You will always be safe"

"I should damn well hope so." Herah interrupts. "I know it's probably been a while since you've been with another mercenary, but I don't need to you to hold my hand into this. I like getting tossed around. It's rare I get a partner with the size to do it, so go ahead and take me over furniture, against the wall, whatever. Spanking, flogging, biting, fingernails, fuck, even knives, are fine, just don't leave marks anywhere that Josephine will notice and have a fit over unless we're out in the field. I'm not interested in anything involving piss or shit, and you're not gonna humiliate me or insult me. You will pick us a watchword, and you will stop if I use it. Oh, and I don't think you would, but if you mention one maker-cursed thing about my race, I will end you. We clear?"

Bull curses softly in Qunlat, one of the phrases Herah's parents refused to teach her, and that her mercenaries all claim doesn't have a translation that bears repeating. "More than. That was great, Boss. Do you have any idea how much I want you after that little speech?"

"Glad it didn't put you off." She smirks, then turns serious. "We do need to decide what this is though. You know how it is. More things end, and they end messier, because somebody wasn't clear on what was happening, then because of an ill-timed spanking. I'm not under the illusion we're going for love everlasting here, but with this as an ongoing thing, we need to get clear on what this thing is, exactly."

"I can do light and casual if you want." Bull says. "You want me, I'm here. Long as we're doing this, you've got my complete attention. Your position don't exactly leave you free to go chasing tail, and if I'm up to my neck in partners and you're not, that's the sort of thing that makes problems."

"Alright, then. Exclusive, but know I'm happy to give that some wiggle room." Herah leans back, stretching her legs to move her toes closer to the fire. "I mean, I love it rough, but sometimes that isn't what I need. It takes a lot out of me, and there's nights--usually when we first get back, but sometimes not--when the last thing I feel like is getting bossed around. I just need to relax and be Herah Adaar, not Her High Holy Inquisitor or whatever title Josephine's thought of for me today."

Bull chuckles. "You don't think I do this with the serving girls, do you? You see, they spend their whole day taking orders and feeling unimportant. They need someone to make 'em feel special and cut loose without repercussions. So I let 'em bounce on top a bit and tell 'em their tits look nice. But you need this. You've got thousands of lives riding on your decisions, bear that weight all day. You need to feel safe, know someone else is in charge for bit. Ben-hassrath training, remember? I know that isn't always about screwing you into the nearest surface."

"I don't really think you got that." Herah says. "I'm saying that there are times when I don't want that. If you expect exclusive, you need to understand that you being in charge--it's fun, but some nights it seems like just another set of demands to fulfill. And when that happens, you either be something else, or find your peace with me finding someone who can."

Bull frowns. "No. This is who we are. It'd be disrespectful to your needs to treat you any other way."

She sits up. "Would you care to repeat that?" Her voice is edged with steel.

"Look, Boss. If it's not what you want, go find someone else. No hard feelings. But we can't change who we are. This is what you need, and I'm not gonna give you anything less than that." Bull explains.

"You are aware that I was fighting, drinking, and fucking my way through the Free Marches before you ever set foot on the mainland?" Herah asks, but continues without waiting for an answer. "Despite what you may think, I have a better grasp on my _needs_ than you will ever. Because I. am. me. You can watch, and observe, and make educated guesses that 'Gee, maybe Herah likes it rough', but you will not, cannot ever presume to tell me what I need. I am not some child to be told my own desires are invalid. Get out."

To his credit, Bull doesn't actually try to say anything in response. He doesn't move, though, either. He just sits there, as if trying to figure out what, exactly, went wrong. 

"For Andraste's sake." Herah gets up, ignoring her own nudity, and points at the door. "Get. Out. Now."

Still confused, Bull gets up silently and leaves. As the door clicks shut behind him, Herah grabs her blanket from the floor and moves to curl up in her bed. She was so close to something so good, and then...

 _Well,_ she reasons, _better to have found out he doesn't respect me now than to learn it later. Doesn't mean it don't hurt, though._ She sniffs as tears start to fall. _It could have been so good, if only he weren't an ass. Ugh. I don't want to be alone right now. I wonder if Dorian's done his bath? Or was he going to meet Cullen for chess? I don't want to explain this to the commander. I'll check the library in bit._


	2. Drinking Won't Solve a Thing, But It Sort Of Numbs The Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herah goes to Dorian for comfort. (Not that kind. I 100% respect Dorian's sexuality.) Booze and a very awkward hug ensue. Everything still hurts.

Dorian is, unsurprisingly, reading in his favorite corner of the library when Herah seeks him out.  As always, he appears improbably immaculate, despite the fact that his hair is still damp from his bath.  Between that and his bare shoulder, she can only speculate there’s some spell he uses to keep warm.  

“Hey,” She says, and he looks up in greeting.

He takes a moment to observe her, then carefully tucks a scrap of paper in his book before closing it.  “You can’t save everyone, you know.” He says.

“I’ve made my peace with that years ago.” Herah leans against the bookcase. “Bull came by to talk.  It went badly.”

“Oh, Herah.  I’m so sorry.  Do you want to tell me about it?” Dorian asks.

She sighs. “I don’t know.  Usually, I’d solve this sort of thing by crawling into bed with Ashaads One and Two, but they’re not here and we both know the advisors would have a fit if the Inquisitor started having one-offs with civilians.”

“Then we’ll go with what I’d do.” Dorian gets up and reshelves his book. “You still have a bunch of those bottles we keep finding, right?  We’re going to get drunk.”

“Alright, then.”  Herah leads the way toward Skyhold’s lower rooms.

 

When Dorian enters the small room Herah stores the liquors in, he sneezes a bit at the dust.  “Is it a southern thing to not clean your wine cellar?”

“Sorry.” She shrugs. “I’ve been busy leading the Inquisition, and if I ask the servants, Josephine will start taking this to serve guests.”

“And then where would we be?” He asks.

“Without alcohol, I suppose.” She scans the shelves.  

“That one.” Dorian points at a bottle.

“Vint-9 Rowan’s Rose?” She reads off the label.

“I recognize it, which is more than I can say for...’Alvarado’s Bathtub Boot Screech’.” He says.  “Which is to say, it promises to be drinkable.  I don’t suppose you thought to keep glasses down here.”

“Nope.” She sits on the bench and grabs a dusty corkscrew from a bucket.  She wipes it off on the corner of her shirt, then uses it to twist out the cork.  She takes a sip from the bottle before offering it to Dorian.  “It’s good!” She remarks, surprised.

“Southerners.” He shakes his head as he takes the bottle and sits down.  “Of course it’s good.  You’re comparing it to that beer they serve in the tavern.”  Nonetheless, he takes a drink and passes the bottle back.  For a while, they sit quietly, passing the bottle back and forth.

Herah’s the one to break the silence.  “Don’t assume he decided it was a mistake or anything.  Bull was happy to continue, but only if he could give me what he thinks I need.”

Dorian thinks for a moment as she takes another drink. “I don’t think I follow.” he admits as she offers him the bottle.

“I should probably start at the beginning.” She admits.

“That might help.” He admits.

“So, Bull comes in, right? We both agree we need to talk.  And so we do.  It goes really, really well.  We’re in sync on keeping it low-key for now and he’s good with my limits on things--do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who wants to push me around, can do so, and isn’t gonna make a comment about the horns?  It’s hard.  Really hard.  But then it comes out that he’s only doing this because he thinks I need it.  And he won’t listen--” She pauses for a moment as her voice catches. “He won’t listen to me about what I need.”

“Herah.” Dorian wraps his arm around her, bringing her in for a hug.  She’s confused for a moment, but then hugs him back.  It’s probably the most awkward hug she’s had in her life.  Dorian’s generally not the sort who relies on physical contact, and most people tend to shy away from coming to close to her horns, so they’re both a bit out of practice.  He pats her back in what she supposes is supposed to be a reassuring manner before asking “Is this okay?”

“It’s fine, I guess.” She replies. “Not terribly reassuring, but, uh, most people assume they’ll lose an eye on the horns, so I guess it’s kind of nice.”

“Alright, then.” Another moment passes.  “You good?”

“Yeah.” Herah disengages carefully. “Warn me if you ever get the urge to do that again?  I’m not entirely sure that fear of losing an eye is entirely unfounded.”

“Certainly.” Dorian replies. “The last thing this Inquisition needs is another one-eyed fool.  And he is that, my friend. You’re beautiful, incredibly tough, and about to save the damned world. What sort of a man wouldn’t want to be at your side?”

“Dorian, I’m seven feet tall with horns growing out the top of my head. I’m not exactly under the illusion I have a lot of options with long-term potential—for most people, I’m worthy of notice for exactly as long as the threat from Corypheus makes me so, and for the rest, I’m a passing novelty. I thought for minute that Bull stood a chance of being something. Not some fantasy like one of Varric’s novels, but at least someone like the Ashaads that I can see once in a while and feel safe with. But he’ll trust his Ben-fucking-Hassrath read on me over my own words. And that’s the damn opposite of feeling safe.” Herah’s aware she’s pretty much spewing train-of-thought, but she doesn’t particularly. Perhaps this is why Dorian recommended alcohol.

“Wait, what? I’d assumed you meant you had some incompatibility there. He won’t even acknowledge you know your own needs? I feel like Sera would have some suitable phrasing, but I’m at a bit of a loss here. Who even does that? Fuck it. We’re switching to the Sun Blonde.” He points at a bottle. “This situation is worse than I thought.”


	3. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch, Everything is Not Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Bull's point of view. Lots of exposition and brooding, but there's not really a better way to show where his head's at--he's not really the sort to come out and explicitly talk about his feelings. Also, Krem/Harding side pairing goodness, because I could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that the fic description has changed--titles and descriptions are something I struggle with, and having a few chapters up and fleshed out has really given me a better idea of what the themes and concepts behind the fic are. There are pieces I didn't realize mattered until I started fleshing out the outline, and other pieces I had thought were going to matter that might or might not. Expect the same basic warnings (nothing outside of canon-typical violence is planned, and I'm not killing anyone with a name that you wouldn't expect.), and the same basic endgame relationships, but I'm gonna stop pretending to myself that this is a story of sitcom-style miscommunications. Instead, you're gonna get Character Development! and Heartfelt Talking! and some angsting while everybody works their way toward a happy ending.

After being kicked out of Herah’s room, Bull goes to meet with the Chargers.  Sure, he’s a little confused and is going to need to go over what happened, but the company’s going to want to know where he is if he’s not there telling them about going into the Fade, and he’s never going to hear the end of it if the explanation is ‘getting dumped by the Inquisitor.’    
  
When Bull enters the tavern, Krem, as usual, stands on his chair to greet him. “Chief! Lace here was just telling us about your return.  Tell us, did you and the Inquisitor really go into the fade?”  
  
“Yep.” Bull confirms. “Big-ass archdemon busted up the bridge we were standing on, and the Inquisitor opened up a rift so we didn’t all crack like dropped eggs when we hit the ground.”  
  
“And the nightmare demon? Loghain saving you all?” Harding presses.    
  
Bull decides to change the subject.  The nightmare demon is still fresh on his mind, and got under his skin in a way that he’s not gonna unearth for the tavern’s entertainment.  “True.  Bet they didn’t mention how wet is was, though.  I still need to warm up.” He calls out to Cabot, “Break out a cask of mead on me!”  
  
Over the years, Krem and Bull have developed a rough code of sorts.  It’s not something they can hold a conversation in, but for the necessities of their lives--an all-set before an ambush, a quick check-in while negotiating with a client, cheating at cards to keep the pay coming when a client’s late with the gold--they have a moment of eye contact, and quick gesture.    
  
On the way to get a drink, Krem scratches under his jab with his thumb.  There’s a scar there, Bull knows.  Too close a call, a mission gone bad, a question for the answering.    
  
Bull considers adjusting his eyepatch, but stops himself.  Lying to Krem would be bad.  Instead he takes a drink for his mug, tapping his fingers against the surface.  Yes, it’s that bad, and they’ll talk.  Later.  In the meantime, he sits back and watches the evening unfold.  Krem’s introducing Harding to the Chargers.  Huh.  Bull knows he’s been distracted by finding the right time to approach the Inquisitor, but he totally didn’t see that one coming so soon.    
  
Dalish’s familiar denial of “I’m not a mage!” cuts across the tavern.  
  
“Of course you aren’t.” Krem replies. “Your ‘bow’ just has a big, glowing crystal at the top.”  
  
It’s an exchange, Bull knows, that’s the same every time.  Their own little script, played over every time someone gets introduced to their little band.  Krem described it once as the meet-the-family speech, and Bull supposes it’s not so different, in its way, from the rituals when someone approaches a member about joining the Qun.  The substance is different, but it’s both a lesson, and a test.  They’ve got the rhythm down, the jokes in sync.  To the outsider, it warns we are close, closer than you and I. And it tests Will you reject us? Will you try to change us?.  He likes it, and, as Harding sits down and Krem passes her a fresh drink, he smiles and nods.  She’s passed.    
  
The night wears on, and a few more rounds are served.  Bull watches carefully as conversation develops.  He’s glad Harding seems to be fitting in, and needs to reevaluate his assumptions.  She’s gonna get together with Krem well before their contract is up, if his arm around her shoulder is any indication, and if that lasts, well, he doesn’t want to make Krem choose between her and the Chargers.  Truth be told, she’s not a bad fighter.  He just needs to figure out how to get her to join up once the Inquisition finishes.    
  
He’s bitterly aware there’s some sort of irony to it all.  Just days before, he was trying to figure out how he’d set things with Herah once it was over.  Because he knows they were both lying in a way when they said casual.  It’s not easy finding intimacy when you’re running mercenary company--the troops are off-limits, and finding someone who can deal with long-term absences during which you might die is an iffy proposition at the best of times.  When you get someone who can handle that, you keep the hell in touch, because sex, Bull knows, is best with someone you’ve practiced with, someone you don’t have to tell what you need.  It’s why the Qun sends you to the same few tamassrans, so they get to pick you apart and know you, know exactly what you need to keep going and give it to you from the moment you walk in the door.    
  
Turning Tal-Vashoth means he’s done with tamassrans, though, and the best he can hope for is to practice.  It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy sex with the serving staff, it’s just--the same, every night, like an old book with a new cover.  They want to cut loose, have a good time, bring a tale back to their friends to scandalize and tantalize about how they got fucked by the Iron Bull.  And he thought he stood a chance for something different with Herah, but he misread her somewhere.  This troubles Bull, and doubt creeps into his mind.  Some part of his reading is off, and he can’t pin down what.  If he knew what was uncertain it would be less troubling, but as it is, it throws all his readings into question.    
  
The party’s breaking up now, the Chargers turning in their mugs and saying their goodnights.  As always, he and Krem are the last to leave.  As Harding gets up to turn in their mugs, Krem speaks.  “You’ve been quiet tonight, Chief.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking.” Bull admits.  
  
“Fade was that bad?” Krem fails to keep concern out of his voice.  
  
“Don’t remind me.  Demons everywhere.”  Bull shakes his head. “But no.  I think I got a bad read on the boss, and I can’t figure out where I went wrong.”  
  
Krem nods, and waits for him to continue.  
  
“Not gonna talk about it here.” Bull says.  “Come round some night, though.  Maybe you can help me see what I’m not.  For now, I’m gonna take a piss and go to bed.”


	4. If We Could Just Pinpoint Where Everything Went Wrong, We Might Still Be Okay

“What are you doing here?” Bull was planning on going to sleep after his evening with the Chargers, and definitely didn’t expect to find Krem sitting on his bed.

“Whatever happened with the Inquisitor’s been bothering you, Chief, and there’s no time like the present to figure it out.” Krem replies.

“Right.” Bull says. “Figured that would be later, though. You and Harding were pretty cozy tonight.”

“And you’re avoiding the subject. What did you misread that’s got you this balled-up?” This is gonna be one of those nights he regrets teaching Krem how to read people, Bull can already tell.

“Well, I fucked the Inquisitor about a week ago.” Bull starts off. As Krem nods, he continues, “Before I came to the tavern, we tried to discuss it. It went well until she kicked me out of her quarters. And I didn’t see it coming, but I can’t figure out where I got it wrong. That throws everything I gather into question, since I can’t pinpoint the error.”

“Alright. Give me your read. If we’ve got a point of difference, we’ll know what went wrong.” Krem says.

“She’s in a dangerous place and she knows it. “Lost” would be an easy misread, but she knows how to command a force. The scale is new, though, and she can never forget that their religious fervor could turn at any minute and get her killed, leave alone the danger from Corypheus. If I wanted to use and manipulate her, I’d make her feel secure; I’d convince her my advice would help protect her from her own fame once Corypheus is defeated and the neccessity of her abilities no longer protects her. What she needs right now, though, is a place to step back, feel safe, let someone else take charge. That’s what I wanted to give her.” Bull says.

“Aw.” Krem says. “You like her! But that’s basically what I’ve got, Chief. I do suspect she’s cautious about letting someone in in terms of sex, though. I’m sure you noticed, but most folk around here see her as the Herald or as a seven-foot-tall killing machine instead of as a woman. She’s likely to be a bit fragile, try and reject you before you can her.”

“Nah.” Bull shakes his head. “She was all for making it an ongoing thing. The read’s definitely off somewhere, because what she needs isn’t squaring with her.”

Krem frowns. “Chief? Could you give me more details on exactly what was said?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “We agreed on who could know and that we wanted to do it again. Then ground rules. Everything seemed right--she had her own list of good things and limits, and that seemed to square with my read. We agree to keep it casual—and then everything went tits-up.”

“Alright.” Krem says. “I’m gonna need more detail than that on the ‘tits-up’ bit.”

“I mentioned exclusive, she disagreed—I think she thought I was only interested in if she could keep up, like I wasn’t willing to treat her softly on days she needed that. Then she told me my understanding of her needs was all wrong, and got very angry. Something about how I’ll never understand it, and then she kicked me out.” Bull clarifies.

Krem laughs awkwardly, grimacing. “Ah, Chief, did you, at any point, tell her what you thought she needed?”

“Of course.” Bull replies. “About the point things started to go badly.”

“That’s why she got angry.” Krem says. “Outside of the Qun, people tend to dislike being to what they need.”

“This hasn’t been a problem before.” Bull says.

Krem sighs and shakes his head. “When you’re some noble’s side piece, or having a one-off behind the tavern, that makes you mysterious and savage, Chief. You are neither of those to the Inquisitor. You are a Tal-Vashoth mercenary, just like the _entire company of them she commands_. She expects you to come to her as an equal, and ask her what she needs.”

“And what if she’s wrong?” He asks. “This is why the Qun has trained Tamassrans. People don’t always know, or ask for what they want instead.”

“Then you listen to her.” Krem says. “Most folk outside of the Qun don’t like being told how they feel or what they need.”

“Ah.” Bull says. “Now I need to get some sleep.”

“Gotcha, Chief.” Krem nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter. But schoolwork and travel kinda happened, and I decided it'll be better to get something out than to not. And it's kind of a big little scene, in terms of character development. Took kind of a while to get right.


	5. The Worst Hangover Is When You Have To Deal With People You Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is hungover. Bull wants to take his books. Dorian is sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey--Sorry this one took so long! First, I was trying to write it from Bull's POV, and had to rewrite because it wasn't working, then I had a whole week where I was running tech for a show and was super busy. I swear I'm gonna finish this thing!

It’s a loud _thud-thud-thud_ against his door that wakes Dorian up.  “One moment!” he yells, sitting up.  

He immediately regrets that choice.  The room spins a bit, and a pounding headache makes itself known.  “Err, is it urgent?” he asks.

“Define urgent.” It is, of course, Herah.  Something about Qunari physiology seems to make them immune to hangovers.  He is constantly envious.  “They’ve spotted a dragon in Crestwood, and I wanted you to come along.”

“Not today.” Dorian groans and collapses back onto the bed.  “I had too much last night.”

“Right.” Herah says. “Humans. You sure? It’s a big one.  Might even breathe lightning!”

“Quite certain.” He reaches for a pillow to set over his eyes. “You might try Sera.  Or maybe Cassandra.  I just want to sleep.”

“Alright, then.” Herah says.  He can feel her disapproval through the door, but right now he doesn’t care.  He listens as she walks off, then fade off into blissfully painless sleep.

When he wakes again, he finds that his headache has retreated and only a dull fog remains.  He splashes some water on his face, puts on clean robes, and pets his hair into shape before stepping out to go to the library.

It is, of course, just before noon, juding by the sun.  He estimates he’s been asleep for several hours, putting Herah’s visit just as dawn was peeping over the horizon.  He sighs.   _Morning people._  

The library, naturally, is full of people.  Those damned ravens of Leliana’s on the upper level add to the hubbub as Fiona lectures a few apprentices and the researchers discuss a new find from the fade as animatedly as Tranquil can.  And, he notes, that lovely elf mage appears to be helping the Iron Bull find a book.  A book in his corner.

Dorian’s jaw tightens with displeasure.  No only is Bull the last person in Skyhold the he wants to deal with right now, the Qunari is in his corner, no doubt messing with his books.  He doubts Bull would be so petty as to deliberately steal, reorder, or damage them to bother him, but he does not want them returned with mysterious stains or reeking of that swill they serve in the taverns.  Of course, the elf seems to have no such concerns--he seems more interested in the Bull’s broad, muscular chest than in the care he’s likely to take with the books.  Like it or not, Dorian has to intercede.

“The Iron Bull. Not who I was expecting to find in the library.  Was there something you needed?” Dorian leans against the bookshelf, his voice dark and bitter.

“You’re not off with the boss, then? Afraid your footsies would get cold?” Bull says.  If Dorian didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a bit of a sigh there--was Bull hoping to visit the Library in secret?

“My feet continue to be fine, thank you very much.” Dorian replies.  “I simply don’t have a need to personally hack to death anything larger than myself.”

“A fact I’m grateful for every day.  You can do some real damage with that staff when you put your mind to it, Vint.” Bull’s good eye travels the length of Dorian’s body.  

“Right.” Dorian coughs. “As I was saying, was there anything you needed?”

“I was looking for books on the Qun.” Bull says.

Dorian raises an eyebrow.  “You were raised under the Qun.  I’m certain anything we have would be woefully incomplete by your standards.”

“I think they’re over here.” the elf librarian says, pulling out a Tevene translation of Brother Genitivi’s _Adventures with the Avvar._  

“Not even slightly.” Dorian says.  “I don’t think you can read that.”

The elf shakes his head, attempting to put the book back.  He struggles a bit to try to fit it between it’s original neighbors, then goes to lay it sideways on top of the other books.

“No! Give that here!” Dorian snaps.  Abashed, the elf hands him the book. “Now, shoo!” Dorian waves him off.

Bull glances at the cover of the book.  “Avvar? He should have put that back as soon as he saw the cover.”

“Of course.” Dorian says. “But that doesn’t answer the question at hand.  Why are you looking for our books on a culture you were raised in?”

Bull frowns. “Krem pointed out some cultural differences I’ve managed to miss.  If there’s a few, there’s more, and knowing what you people say about the Qun will tell me what you find different.”

Dorian frowned. “Wouldn’t a memoir work better?  I know we have one here somewhere, about a Tal-Vashoth leaving the Qun.”

Bull shakes his head, horns swinging precariously close to the shelves.  “That’s gonna be written for you _bas_ , full of struggling with basics.  I understand names, Vint.”

“You could have fooled me.” At this point, Dorian figures the fastest way to get Bull out will just be to sacrifice a book to his clutches.  But for some reason he just can’t turn off the snark.

“Doesn’t mean I have to use them.” Bull grunts, watching as Dorian combs a shelf of questionable travelogues and interviews.

“Here we go.” Dorian hands him a slim, battered volume. “ _Understanding the_ Antaam _: A Critical Analysis of Metella Videre’s Tal-Vashoth Interviews._  We don’t have the interviews themselves, but this seems more like what you need.  Will it satisfy you?”

Bull nods, taking the book.  

“Good.  Now get out of my library.” Dorian turns to reshelve the book on the Avvar.  


	6. Sometimes We Decide to Blame it on the Bloodlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herah decides, very consciously, to make a bad decision.

“Big heroes, us, yeah?” Sera sits down beside Herah as she’s cleaning her daggers. Having killed the dragon that had been plaguing Crestwood (and yep, it breathed lightning), they were camped out about half way back to Skyhold with the dragon’s head.

“Isn’t it fun?” Herah asks, smiling. She hopes a little that Sera will go away. It’s not any particular dislike of the elf, but something about the morning’s fight has left her with an arousal that’s refused to go away, and hiding it from the others is harder when they insist on conversing.

“Something like that.”  The elf stretches, pausing for a moment.  “By the way, I’ve noticed you’ve been off since we killed the dragon this morning.  Sitting a little funny, yeah?  You want a moment alone with old scales-and-teeth there, I’m sure I can distract the others.  Bit weird, but I figure it’s a Qunari thing, yeah?”

Well, crap. “I’m--that’s not needed, Sera.” Herah rubs her hand against her forehead.

“You need some alone time, then?” Sera asks. “Wouldn’t blame you. Last dragon, I thought Bull was gonna start touching himself before it was even dead.”

Herah shakes her head. “I think Cassandra would disapprove. Besides, it’ll be better in the morning, I’m sure.”

“Really?” Sera asks. “Wouldn’t want you to get all frustrated and stopped up there. Can’t have you running around inquisiting if you’re all focused on _inquisiting_ , if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll be good.” She replies. “I’m sure.”

And, of course, she’s wrong. When she wakes up in the morning, it’s worse, if possible.  Their day of traveling is an exquisite torture—If she leans _just_ so against the saddle, she gets just a bit of relief, but then Sera winks at her with that knowing expression, and she has to sit back again.

By the time they make it to Skyhold, she’s thoroughly frustrated, trying desperately to think about anything other than dragons or what she’s going to do as soon as she gets back up to her quarters.

It will, of course, be far from the first time she’s helped herself to release.  She’s no blushing maiden, and knows all too well exactly where to rub and how to curl her fingers just so to bring herself off.  There’s not a lot of reliable recreation in a mercenary company, and one she can practice on her own, with just her hands or maybe the wooden phallus Ashaad Two gave her a few years ago, is one she’s taken time to perfect.  

But she’s no stranger to regrettable decisions, and she knows it’s not just hunger for a quick release anymore.  She wants something rough and fierce, something that feels like blood and fighting.  So when Bull actually makes eye contact through the small crowd gathered to gawk at the dragon head she brought back, she can’t help but think that maybe, just this once, she’ll try to lower her standards.  She’s the Inquisitor, after all.  He’s not exactly going to try anything she doesn’t want if she can open a damned rift in her bedroom.  

So she dismounts and hands her reins off to Horsemaster Dennet before passing through the crowd.  She jostles Bull pointedly, murmuring “We need to talk.” into his ear as she moves by.  

Once she reaches her quarters, she slides out of her armor.  They do actually need to talk first, so she leaves on the cloth shirt beneath the leather, but the rest of the buckles and straps will just get in the way.  She pokes at the fire then sits at her desk, waiting.

It’s a good five minutes before Bull knocks.  Reasonable, after all.  He had to sneak away.  “Come in.” She says.

And he does. “Hey, boss.” he says. “I’m surprised you wanted to talk so soon.  Krem kinda made it clear to me we had a cultural misunderstanding last time we spoke.”

“‘Misunderstanding’ would be putting it mildly.” She leans back, resting her feet on top of her desk.  

“Right.” He sniffs the air, then shifts awkwardly. “You haven’t bathed since you killed that dragon, boss?”

“No time, no privacy.” She says.  “ _Taarsidath-An Halsaam_ , as you kept shouting last time.”

“That’s not exactly a religious ritual.  You don’t have to jump at it first chance you get.” He explains.

“But I wanted to.” She watches him carefully, smiling as realization dawns on his face.

He walks over and around her chair.  She glances back as he leans over her. “Does this mean we’re good, then?”

Herah swallows as her pulse quickens. “No. It’s not the sort of thing you just apologize for.  But I can trust you not to make this out to be more than it is, so, a little?” She swallows again. “We’re getting there.”

“Okay.” Bull rests his hands on her shoulders, just enough that she tenses.  He drops them, noticing her discomfort.  She smiles.  “Tell me what you need, Herah.”

She freezes for a moment, and he backs off, leaning against her desk instead.  Still in the corner of her vision, but not looming.  Maybe it really was a weird mistake.  Perhaps he is trying to change.  Or perhaps she’s being played, and it’ll be all ‘Tell me what you need’ for a few weeks and then back to the status quo.  She’s nobody’s fool, and people don’t just change in the amount of time it takes to kill a dragon.  But she can enjoy this now while she can.  Her analysis will be better when she’s less aware of her own pulse between her legs.

“Hard and fast.” She gets up and moves towards the bed, away from her papers and inkwell.  “Lots of teeth.  I want fighting, conquering.  Don’t hold me down tonight.  Is that doable?”

Bull follows her.  “Yeah.  Is ‘Katoh’ still good for a watchword?”

Herah glares at him raising an eyebrow.   _Do we seriously still have to do this?_

“Last piece of talking, okay?” He prompts her.

“It’s fine.” She starts to roll her eyes, but is distracted as Bull pushes her down onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: smut at last! But that will wind up waiting until I can have a couple drinks and spent a night writing. Because I slightly have trouble writing smut sober...


	7. For a brief and glorious moment, there was joy, for we were having sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long and last, the smut! With all the communication, because People/Communication is my OTP. Also, I still suck at titles!
> 
> Apologies for the long lag--the smut always takes forever to write, plus school is a thing. 
> 
> And thanks to the lovely AimlessAnenome for your edits.

Herah hits the bed with a soft “ooph” as Bull follows. He kisses her, all rough and now with just a hint of teeth. She bites back, leaning up to press against his body. He tugs at her ear to lean to the side so he can get in to access her neck. 

She stiffens a little as he licks and nips softly at her neck, teeth covered, but just enough so that she knows he could mark her easily, which is a no-go. She bites back a soft moan. She wants his teeth, sharp and bruising, digging into her neck as much as he does. But her role won’t let her, and she still doesn’t quite trust him not to decide she needs to have marks. As she considers pushing him away, he leans up to catch her eye. 

“No?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not there.”

“Okay.” He leans down again, kissing her mouth gently. She reaches around his neck to pull him in harder and closer, but instead finds her hands gripping against her shoulders as she squirms in response to his fingernails digging in along her left side. And then she’s laughing as the feel of his palm against the small of her back makes it clear he’s used the distraction to slip his hand under the bottom of her shirt.

He smiles as she rolls them over, sitting up so she’s straddling his hips. She grinds her crotch teasingly over his growing bulge, smiling as he groans and drags her down for another kiss. She’ll never get over how good it feels, she realizes, to bed another Qunari. The sheer size of them feels good between her legs, the way she has to look up, even laying down, to make their lips meet never ceases to amaze her. He could carry her over to the desk and take her, for real, no “I can’t lift you”s or “Pretend like I’m strong enough to shove you”s. It’s an addictive feeling, and she’ll be hard-pressed to give it up when this is over.

She resolves to stop overthinking it as Bull scratches along her back, instead moaning softly and biting at his lower lip. He chuckles and scratches again, harder, as she grinds against his stomach, biting her moan into his lip.

He pauses for a moment. “Neck or shoulder’s better if you’re gonna do that.” He says. 

Herah nods, leaning back to pull off her top to give him better access. 

“Damn, you’ve got great tits.” He says as she tosses the shirt aside. 

“I know.” She resituates herself, leaning in to nip at his rather magnificent trapezius. “Just keep going.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Bull slaps her ass, letting out a pleased rumble as she bites down in surprise. He rakes his fingernails up her back, and she moans into his shoulder. She can almost picture her back as he digs in, curved red marks arcing along twin columns of muscle. Maker, but he’s savoring it, slow and easy like she hasn’t been dying for this for two days now. She grind her hips against his, hoping he’ll get the subtle hint to hurry up.

He spanks her again in response, then flips her, catching her hands to pin them to the bed with one of his own. “Let me get the pace.” he growls, the tips of the fingers on his spare hand stroking a soft warning against her throat. 

“Make me.” Herah rolls her hips up to rub against his covered erection again.

He slaps her across the face. She exhales sharply, then glares up at him. That stung. 

“You good?” He asks, checking in. 

“Fine.” She lifts her hips again, and Bull twists her nipple in response, the sharp sensation shooting straight to her loins. 

“I warned you.” He says.

“Warn me harder?” She suggests with a smirk, repeating the action.

“Or I could give in.” Bull says. He releases her wrists and sits up, sliding his hand into her pants to thrust two fingers inside her. It’s full and surprising and she has to fight back the urge to inhale so she can frown at him.

“You’re going to give up? Just like that?” 

“What can I say? You convinced me.” He curls his fingers inside of her, smiling as she clenches down in pleasure. “Or maybe I just had a change of plans.” He thrusts with his fingers, beginning a slow rhythm as he continues: “Perhaps you’ve had enough time to savor the anticipation. You’re so fucking wet. The last few days must have been hard. So I’m thinking I get you off first, and then I let you ride the Bull. Or maybe I’ll pound you into the mattress. Or the floor. Or up against the wall. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I can always choose for you.” Herah grabs him with her legs and turns him over. “I never got to ‘ride the Bull’ last time.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t move. She grinds against him. He smiles.

“Uh, Bull?” Herah asks.

“I never said I’d make it easy.” He smiles. 

Herah shrugs, and goes to undo his pants. He punches her in the ribs. Not enough to crack anything, but just enough to knock the wind out of her. 

“Fuck.” She wheezes. “What was that for?”

“You wanted conquering.” Bull said. “Conquer me.”

Herah smiles, and rolls her eyes. She grinds her crotch against his, grabbing his hands as he brings them up to stop her. “Uh-uh” she warns, rocking forward.   
Bull tries to get his hands free, and she responds quickly, bending a finger back. He winces. “Really?”

She laughs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A moment’s pause. Right. She wraps one hand around his hurt finger, and moves the other to undo his pants. She can see his other arm move, and tightens her grip on his finger. He puts it down again, and she relaxes her grip as she slides herself down onto his length. 

Fuck, that’s good. She settles herself, then begins to move. Bull smiles, and she feels him start to thrust arhythmically upwards. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was just really, really bad at sex. But he’s shown no such deficiency before. She slaps his chest. “Cut it out.”

“Make me.” He retorts.

She grabs a nipple and twists. “Cooperate.” 

Bull nods and corrects his tempo, recognizing her Business Voice. “Alright. I yield.”

She releases his hand, and smiles as they go to her waist. She picks up the pace a little, bracing herself on either side of his torso. She closes her eyes, losing herself in the feeling of a warm body holding her, below her, inside her. She can feel the pleasure winding itself up inside her as they fuck. 

The cool air hits her side, then a pinch at a nipple, pleasure shooting to her groin. She moans, opening her eyes to meet Bull’s. He pinches again. “Fuck.” She exhales. “Don’t stop.” 

He keeps eye contact as he continues, tracing loose circles around the areola, drawing in until he reaches the nipple, then pinching. He switches nipples and repeats. And repeats. Herah loses count of the alternation--eight times? 10? as she nears completion. 

As always, she can’t pin down a specific gesture or action that makes her come undone. A wave of pleasure rolls out from her pelvis, her back arches. She loses herself for a moment as she closes her eyes, letting go of everything but feeling so, so good. 

When she opens them again, Bull’s still moving, his hands back on her waist. “You good if I finish, Boss?” he asks.

Herah smiles. She can’t stop smiling. “Sure.”

Bull thrusts a few more times, then sighs as he stops. “Good. I wasn’t gonna last much longer.”

“Well, that’s what hands are for.” She slides off him and gets out of bed. “Want anything to drink?”

“Depends.” He sits up, tucking his dick back into his pants. “If you want me to stay, sure, but I can just as easily grab a beer in the tavern.”

“You should probably head out then.” She rummages in her dresser for a cup. “I think Josephine said something about a fitting in the morning. She’ll probably wake me up early, and you know how she’d react.”

“Probably start planning a wedding.” Bull shakes his head as he buckles his harness back on. “Anyways. See you around?”

“Yeah.” Herah holds up a cup triumphantly, and he stands to leave. “Wait… Can you show up to the fitting tomorrow? Josephine’s office. We don’t have a better expert on dressing Qunari for Orlais.”

“Krem will never let me live it down.” He chuckles. Seeing her frown, he clarifies, “I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” Herah smiles and nods, dismissing him.


	8. It's All Fun And Games Until Someone Suggests Permanent Body Modification

From the moment the Josephine leads the consultant into her office, Herah can tell the meeting is about to go very badly. Mask or no, she can feel the Orlesian woman’s assessment of her, and she knows that, between the cozy green pajamas, the messy war her hair’s tied back, and her general qunari-ness, she’s bound to be found wanting. 

“Inquisitor Adaar? May I present Odile DuBois, the foremost voice in Orlesian fashion?” Josephine says. “Odile, the Inquisitor and a few of her inner circle: Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchanter to the Imperial Court, Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, and, er, The Iron Bull.”

“Charmed.” Odile says, clearly anything but. “We certainly have our work cut out for us.”

“That is why you’re here.” Herah shrugs, winking at Dorian. Better to get this over with.

“Very well.” Odile unbuckles her trunk and pulls out some drawings. “This, my dear, is the Orlesian silhouette. Narrow waist, with a ballgown skirt. A high collar framing a revealed--but modest--décolletage.”

Herah nods, and waits in silence before realizing Odile is done speaking. Odile clears her throat to fill the silence.

“Right.” Bull speaks up. “That décolletage shouldn’t be a problem, at any rate. The boss has plenty of tit.”

Herah covers her face to hide her laughter as Odile sputters. She checks the expressions of her companions as she tries to recover. Bull is guffawing, Dorian seems amused, and even Vivienne is letting a hint of a smile escape.

“The quality of her chest is not an issue.” Odile remarks. “If anything, the styles tend to favor a more modest silhouette. It’s much easier to pattern without becoming unseemly.”

“Okay.” Herah says. “What do you need from me? I really don’t care what the dress looks like.”

“Of course I do.” Odile says. “We have to consider colors, textures, accessories...Josephine, would you be a dear and get someone to bring us some tea?”

Josephine nods and departs as Odile flips through her sketches. “I think this one will suit--well, as much an outfit can suit you, my dear.” She shows an illustration of a green gown with a pointed standing collar and hennin. 

“That’s charming.” Vivienne remarks. “Though I might suggest switching the gold trim to silver. Herah’s complexion might give the effect of mixed metals if it were constructed as drawn.”

“Of course.” Odile smiles. “This design was originally a draft for a human, after all.”

Herah sighs. “I don’t care. Can we get the fabric from the Avvar? They’ve got this great soft cotton.”

“Absolutely not.” Vivienne scowls. “That is not a material suitable for a formal event. Odile will offer you choices.”

“Acceptable gowns, Inquisitor, are constructed either of silk brocade or a plain woven silk with lace accent. Those are the only possibilities.”

“Fine.” Herah frowns. “Brocade is warmer, and less likely to get caught on anything.”

“That’s our Adaar.” Dorian chuckles fondly. “Always thinking practically.”

“I can tell.” Odile remarks. 

Josephine reenters the office, a servant in tow. “We have some tea.” she says as the servant passes around cups and begins to pour. She notices the sketch. “Is that the dress? I think it will look lovely on the Inquisitor.”

“Of course it will.” Odile gestures for Herah to stand up, then whips out a cord, marking and recording Herah’s measurements. “I designed it, after all.”

Herah yelps as Odile pokes the side of her stomach. “What was that for?”

“I have to approximate what we can do in terms of corseting your figure.” She replies. “Unfortunately, you’re solid muscle, so not much.”

“I could have told you that.” Herah frowns.

“Now bend down, if you will. I need to measure your head.” Odile says.

“Why?” Herah asks. “It’s not like I can wear a hat.”

“Of course you can, my dear!” Odile replies. “We simply have to remove those horns, and--”

“No.” Herah’s voice drops from doubtful to what Shokrakar described as the ‘murder voice’.

“Are you planning to go into court with horns sticking out of your head?” Vivienne frowns. “I understand you’re attached to them, my dear, but you must make certain sacrifices if you expect Orlais to appreciate you as a player of the Game.”

“Not that one.” Herah says. “I’ve already had this glowing hand shit forced on me. You are not taking my horns. And if Orlais won’t appreciate me for it, they can go screw themselves.”

“Isn’t this a bit melodramatic?” Vivienne asks. “I expect this sort of thing from Sera, not you, my dear. Orlais’ approval will ensure the empress heeds your warning. And they’re just horns--”

“They don’t grow back.” Bull grunts.

“What?” Vivienne turns.

“They don’t grow back, ma’am.” He clarifies. “If she cuts them off, they’re gone for good. Might as well ask you to chop off an earlobe for fashion.”

“Oh.” Vivienne coughs. “That certainly changes things.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Odile scowls. “I am hinging my reputation on presenting Inquisitor Adaar to the court, and I certainly can’t be seen backing some hatless horned savage!”

“Go, then.” Herah growls. 

Josephine moves in and sets a hand on Odile’s shoulder. “Please reconsider. I understand that the Inquisitor can be difficult to work with, and the horns present an unusual challenge, but haven’t some of your finest works been built from challenge? Why, you built your name on incorporating masks to cover Lady Sabine’s skin condition! You took a disfigured young woman from a minor estate, and turned her into the trendsetter for all of Orlais! Couldn’t this be another opportunity to establish a vision?”

Odile shakes her head. “Lady Sabine is human, my dear. Her style could be aspired to, emulated. No one else in the court of Orlais has horns.”

“You were going to put her in divided hennin.” Dorian notes. “You wanted to chop her horns off, make her wear a hat that looks like fake horns. That’s so Orlesian.”

“It’s a nod to her heritage.” Odile says. “In order to garner respect at court, she must play the Game. In order to play the Game, she must look the part. The hennin is a joke, a sly wink that we can’t hide that she’s Qunari.”

“Then why hide her?” Josephine asks. “As long as she doesn’t give them an excuse to kick her out, she can do every bit as much good as a provacateur as she can a courtier. Cassandra may not enjoy it, but between her, Leliana, and I, we can forge the social ties we need. And moving the right sort of scandal around the court may well loosen tongues in unexpected places.”

“A scandal.” Odile contemplates. “My dears, I expect Josephine and I have more to discuss in private. My name, of course, must never come up. And this will require a larger fee of course. New sketches will need to be drafted.”

“So tomorrow then?” Herah asks.

“Tomorrow, yes.” Josephine nods, dismissing them.


End file.
